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Some of the staff oohed, as if there was about to be a big street brawl. Murphy merely shook his head, seemingly amused.
Truthfully, Kyle’s words cut into him, made him anxious. He couldn’t say why. Murphy had a law degree and valuable experience at the firm under his belt; he wasn’t so much afraid he wouldn’t pass the bar this time than…what?
Damn, he didn’t want to think about what came afterward: hiring on with his cousin Ian’s law firm just as he’d always been expected to do. Going to the stifling parties, like the masquerade he’d have to attend this Sunday to network. Having the rest of his life planned out because he couldn’t let down his family by doing otherwise.
He sniffed as an enticing aroma—Chef Miike’s scallops with mushrooms over rice noodles—wafted past. Murphy closed his eyes, savoring more than just the scent. He held on to a fantasy that had no place on the path he was following—the dream of a restaurant where he could make magic in the kitchen.
As the smell disappeared, he opened his eyes again, seeing the words on the legal brief scattered before him.
Nerves rustled just under his skin, and his heart started to pound. There it was again—pressure building in him, around him, threatening from all sides. He felt as if there was a slab of rock pressing on his chest, pinning him down, stealing his freedom. He’d give his left arm to get out from under it.
But, true to form, Murphy told himself to let it go. Then he put on that carefree attitude like a cloak by resting his hands on the back of his neck, reclining farther in the chair and smiling at Kyle in a who-gives-a-crap way.
He knew it would drive his cousin nuts.
“Look at him,” Kyle said lightly, shuffling the cards and grinning at his friends. “The great hope of the Sullivans. The big brain who almost broke the bank to go to law school at fancy-pants Tulane.”
Hey, Murphy thought, he and his parents had worked long and hard to get him to the Louisiana college where he’d stayed with relatives, relied on scholarships and worked part-time to make ends meet. Murphy had even delayed enrollment a couple of years after high school graduation just to help earn his way through the school where all the Sullivan lawyers had gone. No wonder he felt so much pressure now. All the cash and hope that had been invested in him made passing the bar and succeeding that much more important.
Going to Tulane held symbolic significance in the family. The first Sullivan brothers had settled in New Orleans during the late 1800s and, gradually, after working their way up the lace-curtain ranks, two descendents had realized their dreams of opening a law practice in 1938. Having been educated at Tulane, they established a family scholarship fund for future Sullivan lawyers, thereby creating a precedent for each generation to aspire to. Sullivans who’d branched out to different areas of the country vied with each other to win the honor of attending the school, and when Murphy had made his parents proud by earning the award, the last thing he’d thought to do was refuse it or question whether it was actually the best school for him.
And while in New Orleans, he’d discovered cooking. Discovered that maybe being a lawyer wasn’t his first wish, after all.
Not that it mattered now. Murphy’s life was set, and he knew how lucky he was to have fate give him such an opportunity. After graduation, he’d moved back to San Fran to be near his close-knit family and work at his cousin Ian’s side, and all was well. For the most part.
Simmering with a low-burning frustration that seemed to get hotter each day, Murphy still didn’t let on that Kyle was getting to him. He just leaned back a little farther in that chair.
Kyle glanced over, gauging his cousin’s reaction. Not getting much of one, he shook his head and started dealing. When the maître d’, Gordon, cruised by the poker table, the waiter keeping track of the bets and winnings casually put the notepad behind his back.
“I’ve told you,” Gordon said, pointing at the cards, “no gambling here.”
Eyes wide, Kyle grinned, holding up his hands with the undealt cards still in them. “Who sees any money or poker chips, Gordie? We’re playing for fun.”
Gordon bristled, mostly because the nickname “Gordie” was beneath him. He stiffly walked away, his lips pursed.
Kyle and his comrades laughed as he finished dealing and the waiter took the scratch pad out again. One of the players, the only waitress on staff, verbally anted up while the amounts were recorded.
“Murphy,” she said in a deep smoker’s voice, “you’ve got to tell your cousin to kiss up more to Gordon.”
“Ah, Murphy doesn’t know the meaning of ‘kiss’ these days,” Kyle said, arranging his cards. “The poor boy hasn’t had any tail in—what is it now, Murphy? A millennium?”
At the keen reminder, pent-up steam whistled through Murphy’s veins. It’d been a few months, all right—ones that he’d tried to help pass with long days at the firm and the consolation prize of ambition.
Frustrated, Murphy finally stood and sauntered to the card table, glancing over another player’s shoulder. The waiter motioned for Murphy to keep his spot while he ran to the john. It was understood that he was trusting levelheaded Murphy to play out his hand without going overboard.
“Kyle’s going to grow up one day,” Murphy said, assuming the seat, “and leave the playground mentality behind.”
His cousin held up a finger. “Youth is wasted on those who don’t realize they’re gonna get old real quick.”
As Murphy got rid of two cards, he looked at Kyle. Looked at him closely.
They could’ve come out of the same womb, he and his cousin. People often commented on how much they resembled each other, even down to their athletic builds and their low voices. But they were so different it spun Murphy’s head around. Only two years separated them—Kyle was twenty-seven and he was twenty-nine—but it felt like a lifetime.
Oddly enough, Murphy kind of envied Kyle his outlook—his carpe diem nature and big dreams. Trouble was, Kyle never did anything to reach his potential, and that’s where Murphy stopped wishing he could be just a little more like his cousin.
“So, tell me, genius,” Kyle said, dealing the rest of the cards out, “you coming out with us after work tonight or what?”
Murphy kept a smile to himself when he saw that he’d gotten a straight flush. “Got things to do.”
“Right, researching some case or another for the underdogs of justice.” Cocky as ever, Kyle laid down three jacks. He addressed the other waiters. “I think Murphy just needs to be shanghaied outside his brain long enough for the girls to fall at his feet.”
Unbidden heat growled deep inside Murphy. The agony of needing to be inside a wet, warm woman clawed and burned.
He finally laid out his cards, leaning back in his chair again. Kyle’s face flushed at his cousin’s victory, a muscle in his jaw ticking. But then, after pushing aside the split second of tension, he laughed.
“Just like always,” he said, “Murphy’s the man.”
When Kyle sent him one last glance, Murphy could read everything in it, just as if Kyle was revealing a hand on the table: competitiveness and the longing of a young kid who’d followed Murphy around worshipfully while they’d grown up on the pavements of the Sunset District.
Murphy held his cousin’s gaze for a moment before Kyle shook his head then glanced away.
Why did it have to be like this between them? What was this intensity that had defined their relationship since Kyle and his sisters had lost their parents and moved in with Murphy’s family so many years ago?
He wished things could change. A lot of things, starting with having to wake up early and go to the firm.
Little did he know that when the head waiter came over to tell Kyle that he had a phone call on the main line, Murphy’s wishes would be answered.
Just not in the way he expected.
2
IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, and Tam’s stomach churned with nerves as she sat in a Mandarin-inspired lounge in North Beach, waiting for Kyle Sullivan. A hard-edged song flavored with Chinese lyrics rose above the clatter of an ever-growing crowd as people poured into the red, dragon-studded room.
“He’s still not here,” Tam said into her cell phone.
On the other end of the line, Danica’s calm voice soothed her. “It’s not seven o’clock yet. You’ve still got ten minutes, so don’t sweat it.”
Knowing she was right, Tam tugged nervously at her outfit. She’d chosen to wear a flowy black tunic with a raised collar. The sleeves were long, wide, dramatic in their flare, her pants tight and black and mostly covered by a large scarf tied at her hips and covering her rear. The boots were her favorite part, a stretch of leather that came to above her knees—artistic in a pirate kind of way. She wondered if Kyle would like her clothes, if they made a statement, announcing her creative side. If they would run the usual interference for her tonight; provide the usual distraction.
Or maybe he’d think they were dopey. Maybe her even being here was dopey. A mistake. Yup, she’d made a big mistake calling this guy, getting all dressed up and going out on the town. Sure, he’d been amused by the whole business-card-in-The-Boot story when she’d called him, and he’d been very charming on the phone, but…Tam’s nerves fluttered.
Okay, he’d been downright seductive, with his low, slightly lilting tone, his teasing banter. In Tam’s mind, she’d already built him up to be a sex god, a carefree soul who mirrored the person she imagined herself being. As they’d small-talked, her skin had warmed with anticipation.
Had she finally found a guy who’d be on her same wavelength, even if it was for just a lighthearted, confidence-inspiring fling?
An actual date, she kept thinking. I told him I was looking for a good time. That means I might actually get to feel a man’s hands on me again….
She blew out a breath.
“You just relax,” Danica said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, waiting for my workaholic lawyer here at the bar in Rubicon. Spiffy, huh? He insisted on paying for dinner here. Got to be pretty well off—not that I’m shallow enough to have that be a prime requirement or anything. Still…bonus!”
Tam couldn’t help laughing at her friend’s bubbly nature. “I just hope we don’t end up on my couch at midnight, eating from a tub of Rocky Road and telling each other war stories.”
“Good times, that’s all that’s in store for you. Wait. This might be him. I think he sees the red rose I told him I’d have.”
At the mention of the “marker”—a symbol that would allow one blind date to recognize the other—Tam clutched hers, too. She’d told Kyle Sullivan that she’d be holding a black-and-silver Japanese fan. It complemented her outfit and gave her nervous hands something to do with themselves.
“Good luck,” Tam said.
“Good luck to you, too. Go get him!” And with that, Danica was gone.
Tam was left to sit alone at her high table near the wall, her eye on the door as she anxiously awaited her own date: the man with the gray-blue eyes and black hair The Boot had promised.
AS KYLE AND MURPHY ambled down the sidewalk toward the lounge, Kyle patted Murphy on the back.
“You should’ve heard her on the phone,” he said. “Sexy, sweet and just looking for trouble. Damn, I hope she’s as gorgeous as she sounds.”
The words were like white noise, simple to ignore. As usual, Kyle had been on Murphy all week, yapping and yapping about how Murphy needed to come out with him on their night off and meet some women.
And, since there was only so much temptation Murphy could take, he’d reached his limit a few hours ago, finally giving in. It’d been much too easy. His whole body was on complete overload, screaming to ease the physical ache that too much work and not enough play had inspired.
Yet…good Lord. Murphy knew how this adventure with Kyle would go. While his cousin romanced his blind date, Murphy might meet an interesting woman, talk to her, buy her a few drinks, but then the old conscience would kick in and he’d convince himself that he needed to get back to work.
He wouldn’t enjoy himself. He didn’t know how.
Just thinking about it made Murphy want to tear something apart. Why did he constantly hold himself on such a tight leash? With the encouragement of parents who’d had to scrape by all their lives, he’d always been too intent on making something of himself and fighting off the distractions that threatened to hold him back. Even his ex-girlfriends had complained about his reluctance to deviate from anything but work, work, work.
Despite his mental detour, Murphy could still hear Kyle talking, could still catch a whiff of his cousin’s aftershave. It hovered over the aroma of garlic that wafted out of a corner Italian trattoria.
“Tamara Clarkson made sure I knew she’s ready to roll,” Kyle continued. “Just my type. And we’ll find you a sure thing tonight, too, huh?”
“It’s not like my johnson needs a nanny,” Murphy said dryly. “I’ve got this under control.”
“Control?” Kyle gave Murphy a slight, taunting push. “The point is to lose control, Mr. Button-Down.”
Right, Murphy thought. Kyle was right.
They were approaching the door, into which a cluster of young tourists, probably from nearby Fisherman’s Wharf, disappeared.
“Here goes,” Kyle said. He smoothed down his hair, which had a tendency to go untamed if he didn’t watch it. “Now turn on the charm, Murph. I know you’re that strong and silent type, but sometimes girls like to be acknowledged with actual conversation.”
“Just get in there, Lothario.”
“I’ll do my best not to break any hearts—” Murphy’s cousin paused at the threshold, where hard music spilled into the twilight “—unless I have to.”
Kyle flashed Murphy a smile and stepped inside, immediately glancing around the room and becoming a part of the crowd.
A master of the game, Murphy thought, keeping Kyle within his line of sight as he sauntered into the thick of the mob, too. Just look at him, an expert on the prowl. He knew how to make women happy, even if he wasn’t very good at letting them down easy after the fun was done.
Kyle’s other weak point was his pickiness. He was a dog when it came to wanting only the gorgeous and lean sorority thoroughbreds who were ready to roll. And if they didn’t strike him as attractive right away, he tended to lose interest and move on to the next conquest. At the moment Kyle was sticking to the shadows of the room, searching for his date, wanting to check her out before committing.
That was his modus operandi, Murphy thought. Just a big enthusiastic kid who hadn’t grown up to appreciate more than a pretty face.
He shook his head and glanced away. If he had his younger cousin’s lust for life, he would use it wisely. But that was the whole point—Kyle wasn’t wise. He lived in the moment, out from under the weight of responsibility.
So, deep down, why did Murphy yearn to be that way, too?
Strains of a Chinese rock ballad tore through the room, ripping into Murphy and exacerbating his physical need with every vibration. Scenes from a Jet Li movie flashed over the TV screens hovering in the corners, the images stylized with vengeance and blood.
Murphy’s pulse pushed through him, awakening him. He missed being with people. Missed the friction of nearby bodies, the murmur of voices, the scent of a woman’s shampoo as she brushed by him.
He headed for the bar, the crowd around it as thick as collected moss, their bodies emanating heat. Impatient for a drink, Murphy looked around, deciding to get his social poison from a waitress instead.
And that’s when he saw her.
At a distant table, a woman waited, clutching a fan in one fist. The first personal feature Murphy noticed was her hair—a wild Bohemian bunch of light-brown curls that spilled down to her shoulders. Her fan, her hair, even the way she leaned on the table with her chin in her palm while playing with a corkscrewed strand, added up to a certain dramatic quirkiness.
Just as he was about to admit that she wasn’t anywhere near his type—a female who carried ambition in the disciplined cut of her hair and the steel of her posture suited him much better—he noticed this woman’s eyes. They were a startling blue, widened with such emotion—anxiety?—that he couldn’t look away. Eyes flashing with intelligent awareness, drawing Murphy in.
It was only when she blinked, then glanced at the door, that he noticed the off-kilter black clothing, the long boots hugging her legs, which were crossed, one ankle bobbing in time to the slow, revving guitar licks of the stereo.
Lust blindsided him, twisting in his belly, heating downward until his gut tightened.
Those boots. In spite of everything else about her, they made her into one of those bad girls Kyle had been tempting him with, a woman who’d do anything—with her mouth, with her hands and with her body.
Murphy craved a woman with such boots.
For a long second he allowed himself to wallow in the thought of her, to bathe himself in the mist of wicked longing.
He imagined slipping those boots off her legs or…damn, even keeping them on as he ran his thumbs over the inside of her thighs…. Somehow, with the deftness only a fantasy would allow, he could keep those boots on while working off her pants and underwear—which would be black lace, of course—and then parting those legs so he could see all of her.
She’d give him a naughty smile, her mouth lush with that shiny pink gloss she was wearing, then crook her finger at him.
Come on. What’re you waiting for?
He’d go to her, using his fingers to spread her apart. Her sex would be a deep pink, swollen, already wet. When he tasted her, she’d be warm, his tongue playing around the hood of her clit, teasing it, dipping inside her, kissing her until she moved against his mouth, asking for more, needing it, wanting it…
Asking him to punish this bad, bad girl with the pain of pleasure.
A loud laugh from behind Murphy shook him back to the moment.
He realized he was in a bar, in a crowd, and his cock was aching with fierce, stiff electricity.
Hell, the fantasy had been good while it’d lasted.
He glanced back at the woman, who was now stirring her drink, looking into its depths as if she could read the ice like tea leaves. He wanted to fixate on those boots again, but he couldn’t. Not this time.
Because in this second glance he saw something else about her—a sadness? Something almost hidden under the unruly hair, something that made her hold his attention for a few seconds longer than a girl would who was so obviously not his style.
But his body wasn’t about to let him get away with that. His penis was nudging against his jeans, still awake.
Great. In the middle of a crowd—the perfect place for an emerging hard-on.
It was at that well-timed moment of frustration that she glanced up, meeting the intensity of his gaze.
She sat up in her chair, smiled, the gesture full of cheer and hope, and the room’s temperature rose about fifty degrees.
He couldn’t explain why, but his pulse jerked, and it wasn’t from animal need this time. Seeing her all alone like this and smiling at him jiggered some kind of switch, merging desire and emotion into a confusing brew.
As he stood there, body raging, keening, his cell phone rang. It vibrated against a region that really didn’t require any more encouragement.
Blood pounding, he calmed himself and broke eye contact with the woman, answering the call.
But he couldn’t hear anything, so he headed for the door, managing to get there even with the state of his union rubbing against his jeans.
Kyle was waiting for him outside. Murphy knew his cousin too well—this wasn’t a good sign for the blind date.
“You can hang up. It’s just me.” Kyle tucked his own phone into his pocket, pulling Murphy away from the building and down the street.
“Hold up,” Murphy said, shoving his own phone away. He grabbed his cousin’s arm and stopped him from walking any farther. “Tell me you’re not ditching your date.”
Kyle guided Murphy near the entrance of a closed bakery, the enclosure partially hiding them. “I don’t need to be a fortuneteller to see that there’s nothing there.”
“You didn’t even have time to talk to her, so how could you know that? Isn’t she enough of a babe for you, Kyle?”
Murphy didn’t even know why he was firing away with these questions when the answers were so obvious. This was how Kyle operated; the process was no surprise.
Kyle flinched at Murphy’s tone, telling Murphy that he’d hit every target.
“She didn’t live up to what I pictured,” Kyle said. “The reality killed the fantasy, that’s all.”
“Perfect. Good from far, but far from good.”
“Cut it out, Murphy, I’ll call her right now to say I’ve got an urgent situation and can’t make it. That way neither of us will waste our time by pretending something’ll come of this. No harm done.” Kyle socked Murphy in the arm. “Then we’ll be on our way to better things, because my guy Murphy needs some distraction.”
Adding to his roguish act, Kyle offered a grin, but Murphy was immune.
“What?” Kyle asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He leaned against the building, watching a group of suntanned girls in light dresses walk by. Oddly enough, he didn’t even smile as they said hi to him. Instead he gave a slight nod, then fixed a lowered, tentative gaze on his cousin.
“Hell,” Murphy said, “at least you’ve got standards. At least you won’t screw anything that walks, right?”
Kyle exhaled, clearly relieved that Murphy had gotten his point. “Exactly. Why even make her think there’s a possibility of—”
“You’re a real hero, saving her feelings like this.” Murphy grunted. “You’re so damned shallow that you make a trickle of water look deep.”
“Well, shit, you want to go back in there and go on this mercy date instead? Be my guest. Tamara Clarkson’s the one with the frizzed-out hair, sitting in the corner with a weird fan. Go for it.”
Murphy’s head almost crashed in on itself. His still-awakened groin stirred. “A fan?”
“Yeah, a fan. Among other things, I’m not into average Josies from the drama club.”
Anger—odd and unexplained—welled up in Murphy. “I saw her. She was…” He stopped himself, but his mind finished the thought. She wasn’t average. Hell, no. Striking, yes. A stroke of color in a roomful of moving nothings. A woman who didn’t fit any traditional mold—not society’s definition of beauty, anyway. How could Kyle think she was average?
“Listen.” Murphy leaned closer, offended for her. “I know how you play it. You sweet-talked her on the phone, got her hopes up, and now you’ll drop her without another care. She’s probably going to be crushed that you stood her up.”
“You feel sorry for her.”
Hell, yeah, he did. But it was more than that. It was disappointment in Kyle’s lack of maturity. A twinge of jealousy, because Kyle always seemed to get what Murphy wanted with such relaxed ease—and took it all for granted.
Freedom. Careless immunity from accountability.
Murphy got angrier just thinking about it. Angry with himself for wanting the same thing.
But there was also something else—something much more disturbing about leaving Tamara Clarkson alone in the lounge. She’d seen Murphy, brightened at the sight of him. Based on how alike the cousins looked, she’d thought he was Kyle, didn’t she? Murphy might as well be the one ditching her for all she knew, and that didn’t sit right with him. Not at all.
Ironic, huh? He would love to go back in there, to talk with her and see where things led, to be Kyle for just one night, but he couldn’t.
“If she’d been my date…” Murphy said, trailing off.
“You’d what?” Kyle said, challenging him.
Images ran through his head: boots, skin-on-skin, sighs…
But the good guy in Murphy shut the fantasy machine down in the face of taking care of business. As usual.